


Captain, My Captain

by Moorishflower



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2012-04-17
Packaged: 2017-11-03 20:07:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If someone can please tell me why I wrote this I would be much obliged (or, the one where Martin stammers and John is comfortable with his bisexuality.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Captain, My Captain

Martin Crieff is not the sort of man that people fantasize about. He’s thin and gangly and a bit awkward, and he’s soft-spoken (for the most part), and he’s ginger (which some people would consider a negative). He’s a captain, but he’s the captain of a plane, not a regiment, and so John thinks he shouldn’t be as impressed as he is. Thinks that others would call him a bit barmy for thinking that Martin is as attractive and appealing as he actually finds him. Because he does find him…attractive, that is. He likes Martin’s face, long and a bit doleful and slender as a fox’s, and he likes Martin’s cheekbones (ridiculous, almost as bad as Sherlock’s), and he likes Martin’s heart-shaped mouth and his gangly body and his ridiculous limbs.

He likes Martin. Period.

So when Martin says, “I don’t know why you stay with me,” John rolls onto his side and props himself up on his good arm, staring him down. Martin doesn’t flinch, which says a lot about how far he’s come since John started trying to coach him about self confidence, but he can’t hold John’s eyes for longer than thirty seconds before he looks away. He’s not cowed, not exactly, but confrontation still bothers him, and it’s obvious in every line of his body. John purses his lips, and trails his free hand down the length of Martin’s side. He’s everything that John isn’t: smooth, pale, unscarred, hell, _unblemished_. His belly is soft but not round when John presses his hand there, and Martin inhales sharply.

“Why do I stay with you,” John hums, and drags his hand up, thumb stroking over one small, coral pink nipple. “Let’s see…you’re smart.”

“I barely passed my…”

“ _Shh_. You’ve got to be smart to fly a plane. All those buttons.” John smiles faintly. “And you’re handsome. Stupidly handsome, I dare say.”

“I’m not…”

“Thought I told you to hush.” He leans forward, feeling the muscles in his shoulder stretch and ache as he catches Martin’s mouth with his own. They kiss slowly, Martin opening up under him after a moment of mildly offended resistance at being told to hush. When John licks at his mouth, slips inside to taste teeth and gums and spearmint toothpaste, Martin gives up the ghost entirely, and sucks at John’s bottom lip. He’s not a young man anymore, but when it’s for Martin he finds it surprisingly easy to let the want flood through him. Blushing, stammering Martin had wrung two orgasms from him their first night together, despite inexperience, and John remembers how wide-eyed and fascinated he’d looked when he came the second time, nearly sobbing with relief.

“Handsome,” he repeats. “You’ve got skin like…like pearls.” Martin snorts, but keeps his mouth shut. “No, seriously. Just…perfect skin. Like someone put watchfires on the moon.” He dips his head to kiss Martin’s shoulder, drawing a wet line between one patch of freckles to the next. Martin shivers under him, and then holds very, very still. “And you’ve got a mouth made for kissing. God, I could write sonnets about your mouth, ‘cept they’d be pants and you’d laugh at me.” He scoots down Martin’s body to nuzzle at the sparse hair on his chest, to nose and lick at a peaked nipple. Martin makes an uncertain noise, and John can feel his prick stirring against his thigh. Second time this night, he thinks fondly. He’s not entirely unaffected himself, but this…this is for Martin.

“Your flatmate,” Martin finally says, and John pinches his nipple in retaliation, because really, the last thing he wants to think about while he’s in bed with his boyfriend is Sherlock bloody Holmes. Martin continues on, undeterred for once. “He’s…he’s much more…”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” John presses his mouth to Martin’s belly, mouthing roughly, just the barest hint of teeth. “He’s what, smarter? Handsomer? Number one, that’s debatable, and number two, I’m not about to wax eloquent about Sherlock’s cock, am I?”

He shuffles down the last few inches, breathing hot against Martin’s thigh and prompting a whine in response. “My…”

“Yeah, your cock. Such a lovely, fat prick.” John cups Martin’s bollocks in one hand, rolling the loose skin. Ginger all over, and, grinning, he ducks his head and exhales over the head of Martin’s cock. The foreskin’s almost fully rucked back, and John’s thumb does the rest as he takes hold of Martin at the base. “Could do this for hours. I love the way you fit in me. In my mouth, in my arse, love the way you _taste_.” He licks a stripe up the underside of Martin’s erection, precome gathering on the tip of his tongue, bitter salt. He sucks at the inside of his mouth to savor the taste, and Martin stares down at him, blue-green eyes blown wide and dark, lips parted and pink tongue flicking out to wet them. John meets his gaze levelly, and Martin might try to compare himself to Sherlock, might say he isn’t smart enough for John, isn’t handsome enough or wealthy enough, but John knows, _knows_ , that isn’t true. Because Martin flies a plane, and he’s ginger all over, and he’s got skin like marble flecked with copper.

“Oh please, John.” And Martin’s voice has gone all high and breathy and perfect, his chest flushed cherry red as John finally relents and opens wide and lets Martin in. Cups his sac in one hand while he tongues at the glans, beautiful, beautiful, and Martin’s gasping like he’s run a mile, muttering as if in a fever, “John, John, God, John, please please please.” John’s never heard such a gorgeous sound, and he waits until Martin’s looking at him again, ‘til he’s got the man’s attention before he ducks his head down and takes as much as he can. Martin’s prick is heavy on his tongue, heavier at the back of his throat. He hums, soft, soft, and Martin makes a noise like he’s drowning.

“John,” Martin says, “John, I’m going to come, I’m going to…!”

John lays his free hand on Martin’s thigh, squeezing, reassuringly, and Martin’s hands come up to his hair to grip—not tightly, not hard, even in the throes of passion he’s too much of a sweetheart to force John’s head down—as his hips jerk once and twice and then his cock pulses on John’s tongue. He swallows for what feels like forever, rolling Martin’s bollocks in one hand and rubbing soothing circles along his thigh with the other while he shakes and gasps and comes, in rather spectacular fashion, down John’s throat.

Martin’s fingers begin to slow, turning gentle, carding through his hair as John lets him fall from his mouth. He licks his lips to make sure he hasn’t missed anything, and Martin gazes down at him in stunned and wide-eyed wonder.

“I don’t do that for Sherlock,” he mumbles, voice a bit hoarse, the taste of Martin lingering on his tongue, at the back of his throat. “I don’t do that for anyone else, Martin. _Just you_.”

Martin blinks at him, and God, he’s got beautiful eyes, beautiful lashes, all the more beautiful when they’re up close, as they rapidly become when Martin grabs John by his good arm and tugs him forcefully up to the head of the bed. They lie chest to chest, with John’s half-interested cock pressed to Martin’s thigh, warm and inviting and good.

“I could make a terrible joke,” John mumbles against Martin’s chest, “about preparing for lift-off.”

“Please don’t.”

“Oh, _captain_.” Martin shivers minutely beneath him, and John grins. “You don’t like my jokes?”

Martin’s hands settle on his shoulders, smoothing down over his bare back, over the gnarled mass of scar tissue at his shoulder. His fingers hover there, briefly hesitant, and then fold over the old wound. A little possessive, a lot protective. John is oddly touched, and Martin clears his throat, like he can sense it.

“Perhaps…perhaps I could tolerate them if…”

“If?”

“If you call me ‘captain’ again.”

“Captain Crieff,” John says fondly, and, laughing, tumbles Martin back into the sheets.


End file.
